


The Absent Voice

by obscure_affection



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Aspergers, Autism, Drug Use, DysFUNctional families, Force Feeding, Gen, Medical Jargon, Mentions of War, aspie!sherlock, betrayal and reunion, but little comes directly from sherlocks pov, how a story about one person can be made up via the impressions of many people, like a lot of ableism, overdose scene, talking about sherlock behind his back, this deals with sherlocks autism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscure_affection/pseuds/obscure_affection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story can be told without the protagonist, a story can be told through the impressions, reports, memories and experiences of others. In the end, the only voice we don't hear is that of the main characters. This is not, naturally, always a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Absent Voice

The hospital was white, smelly and sterile.  
  
Sherlock was merely white and smelly.  
  
A small bundle of blankets was deposited into Mycrofts five year old arms. It was hard to imagine this coming out of his mother. Like a babushka doll, Mycroft though, one human emerging from another. He’d done research into human reproduction upon discovering he would soon have a brother. Personally, Mycroft was surprised his parents could spend enough time in each others presence to perform sexual intercourse. Either way, the evidence sat in his arms.  
  
‘Does he have a name?’ Mycroft asked.  
  
‘Sherrinford.’  
  
‘We are  _not_  calling our son  _Sherrinford.’  
_  
‘You have a better suggestion?’  
  
‘I do, actually. Sherlock.’  
  
Mother sounded quite proud of the suggestion, glancing at Mycroft for agreement. He peered down at the dark curly head of his brother, and prodded him. Brilliant blue eyes opened, glaring. Sherlock promptly began to cry.  
  
‘Sherlock it is.’  
  
So Sherlock Holmes ended up the responsibility of Mycroft, his elder by a mere five years. It was expected, really. Father worked in the city, Mother did whatever she did down at the village. Mycroft himself had been raised largely by the ancient butler Morrison.   
  
‘He’s a little charm,’ Morrison announced, peering into the crib. Sherlock was scowling and waving his fat fists in the air, unable to do much else.   
  
‘He cries loudly and they won’t take time off,’ Mycroft said, simply. He and Morrison exchanged knowing looks. It was an unspoken agreement between them, from that moment on. They would raise Sherlock; they would have to.   
  
The manor house (because country estate sounded too rustic) was a mixture of history and decay. It was not a child friendly place. Four spires topped the main building, and the unused servant quarters were deserted and freezing. Nobody had bothered to replace the original mullioned windows- perpendicular and ostentatious- with normal ones. The house was in a state of semi darkness no matter Morrisons efforts.  
  
Having had one child, Mr and Mrs Holmes saw no reason to inconvenience themselves with buying seconds of everything. They could afford to, but why purchase a second cot, pram or toy if the second child could use the siblings leftovers? This meant Sherlock was stuck with second-hand toys, and Mycroft had none. He tried not to feel jealous.  
  
‘I’ll fix it,’ Morrison said, and winked at Mycroft.  
  
He took his next pay check with him to the village, and returned with a bag of things for the brothers to enjoy together. Chess, card games, rubik cubes, puzzle blocks. Perhaps these were not the usual toys for an infant and a toddler; but Morrison had long ago decided to stop treating them like typical children.   
‘Sherlock, don’t eat it-’ Mycroft pulled a toy bird out of Sherlocks mouth. His curiosity was already gigantic, and he saw no reason not to taste anything that fitted in his mouth. It was driving Mycroft to distraction.  
  
‘Stop your fussing,’ Morrison said, watching them from his chair by the door. ‘He’s got a good lot of brain in that head. Just like you. You ought to encourage it.’  
‘He shouldn’t eat my stuff.’  
  
‘Don’t sulk. Once he walks you can go on adventures.’  
  
This sounded promising, so Mycroft decided to speed up the process. He tried pulling Sherlock around his room to encourage him into walking. Despite his size, Sherlock was quite heavy. In the end he dropped Sherlock on his elbow and gave up. So he spent the time waiting for Sherlock to get interesting reading. Morrison had taught him to read, and before long Mycroft had mastered it. If that was an unusual thing for a child his age, Morrison never let on.  
  
The library was a huge room with windows that never got cleaned. The shelves stood so high they needed a ladder to reach the top. At first, Mycroft had been too scared to climb to the top, but the lure of knowledge was too strong.  
  
Eventually, the walking happened on its own.  
  
‘Mycroft!’  
  
Mycroft fell out of his bed, running the two hallways and one staircase to Sherlocks room at top speed. It was very unusual to hear Morrison raise his voice, and already various  situations had sprung to his mind, none of them good, the house was so silent-so large-  
  
He skidded to a halt at the sight of his baby brother stomping across the room at full pelt. Sherlock, having realised the magnitude of his own ability, beamed. It was an infectious smile and Mycroft clapped. A wet-eyed Morrison watched on, delighted.   
  
From then on Sherlock and Mycroft were impossible to separate. They broke into the servants quarters with food (stolen from the kitchen) and hid under a scrubbed old table, giggling and munching on sugared bread. They made dust angles on the floor, and chased down spiders.   
  
‘Sthida.’  
  
‘Spider.’  
  
‘Sthipda.’  
  
‘Sherlock, say spider. Sp-i-der.’  
  
‘Shewock say shpider.’  
  
They pulled the legs off dead spiders and drew the webs. Both of them liked tracing the connections, watching the links of the web pull together to make a single cohesive shape. Their games of hide and seek were complicated, long-winded affairs. Sherlock was a stubborn fool who would refuse to come out of a hiding place until he was found. More than once, he fell asleep waiting for Mycroft to discover him.  
  
‘Too slow! Mycoft too slow for me!’ Sherlock would shriek, delighted, when this happened. Sometimes they would pinch each other, or scuff their feet on the carpet to zap each other. Electricity was fascinating to Sherlock.  
  
It was the dinners that Mycroft didn’t like.  
  
Morrison always severed the family, his old hands making the cutlery stumble and titter on the plates. Father would huff in annoyance, glaring at everyone in turn. At the other end of the table, Mother would hum and smile, vainly trying to offset the fact they had nothing to say to each other.  
  
‘Sherlock. Eat your food.’  
  
Sherlock would push it around, glaring at it. Food. He hated mashed potato; he said it felt wrong in his mouth. Mushy and dissolving, crowding and smothering his tongue. Furthermore, he detested eating mixed foods. It was something Mycroft accepted as weird, but something Father found intolerable.  
  
‘We have a fine meal set out and you won’t eat it. Why?’  
  
‘I don’t like it.’  
  
Sherlock kept his eyes on his fork.  
  
‘Well sometimes in life you just put up with things you don’t like.’  
  
To Mycrofts dismay, Sherlock made no reply. He continued to glare at his fork, his small leg vibrating under the table. Mycroft was too far away to stop him, to give him a warning.  
  
‘Look at me when I talk to you.’  
  
Sherlock didn’t. Mother wasn’t humming now. The table was so highly polished Mycroft could see his own tormented reflection. There was a scape of wood on wood as Father pushed back his chair, preparing himself.  
  
Mother was silent. Mycroft didn’t want to be silent. He didn’t know what to say.  
  
It happened about twice a week.  
  
Kicking and screaming, Sherlock fought with tooth and nail. Father swore, holding his chin with thick red fingers. Too tiny to really protest, Sherlock could only cry and wriggle, the potato smeared over his face and down his throat.  
  
In the corner, Morrison was pale and angry.   
  
After a few awful minutes, Father returned to his seat and continued to eat as if nothing had happened. Red marks lingered on Sherlocks pale skin, and Mother looked as pale as Morrison.  
  
Mycroft hated the dinners.  
  
School was easy for him. Simple, even, and he was advanced a class within his first month of arrival. It wasn’t regular procedure, but his family was rich and he was smart. Mycroft knew those things were important.  
  
Not more important than Sherlock, though. Never. The older he grew, the stranger he seemed to get, and the more brilliant. He began to read the books in the library, and unlike Mycroft he never hesitated to climb to the top of the ladder. Sometimes he just rubbed his fingers over the leather spines, eyes closed.  
  
He continued to eat strangely. Eventually, Morrison began altering the food before it arrived at the table, careful to separate the foods and move most of the things Sherlock didn’t like onto Mycrofts plate. Even though he ended up chubby because of this, Mycroft didn’t complain.   
  
Anything to keep the peace.  
  
‘What are you reading about?’  
  
‘Ribs,’ said Sherlock, the book so large it almost covered his lap.   
  
‘Ribs?’  
  
‘Did you know you have true ribs, false ribs and floating ribs? I think those names are silly. Ribs don’t lie. And they have gravity. Ribs should have bone names like the femur.’  
  
This line of reasoning never failed to amuse Mycroft. Sherlock seemed in a perpetual state of dissatisfaction, oblivious to why things were not called what they were. It seemed as simple as maths to call a fat man fat, to Sherlock.  
  
Mycroft was already better at people than Sherlock.  
  
‘Morrison is old and you are chubby,’ Sherlock declared, his grey-blue eyes alight with the undeniable truth of his words. ‘And Mother is busy and Father is mean.’  
Although he didn’t much like the use of the word chubby, Mycroft had to agree. Morrison was older than he liked to think about. He was bigger than all the other kids at school. And their parents were… Well.  
  
‘Don’t you fuss over me,’ Morrison said, overhearing Sherlock. ‘I’ve got plenty of puff left yet.’  
  
‘How old are you? I tried to work it out from your wrinkles and clothes. I think you’re late seventies.’  
  
‘Sherlock-‘  
  
‘It’s fine.’ With some strain, Morrison sat himself down with them. He was old, the wrinkles of his skin running down his face like water. More than once, Mycroft had accidentally referred to Morrison as Dad. ‘I am exactly seventy nine, Sherlock. And I’ll be eighty this December. Not bad for an old stick.’  
  
‘And how long have you worked here?’  
  
‘Since your parents were married.’  
  
Satisfied, for the moment, Sherlock nodded. He reached out and held onto the fabric of Morrisons trousers. Like the books in the library, the rich texture of Morrisons clothes was vastly appealing to Sherlock.  
  
Somewhere in the house, a bell echoed. Dinner. All three of them shared a cautious look. It was always hard to predict what would happen. It was always hard to ignore the way Mother sometimes cried for no reason. Her tears would fall onto the plate and mix with the gravy.  
  
‘We’re considering your further education, Mycroft.’ Father announced, pouring his wine. It was unusual for him to drink so early in the evening. ‘Considering your marks, we think the last year of your early education ought to be spent at Hertford Boarding. It will give you the best opportunities.’  
  
Knowing that Sherlock had gone pale (knowing his Mother was red-eyed and tired) Mycroft faced his father. Boarding. Leave Sherlock alone in the house with uninterested parents and a man too old to play with him?  
  
‘I don’t want to board…’ Mycroft said, softly.  
  
‘Well, too bad, my boy! I’ve already put your name down.’  
  
‘But I-‘  
  
‘Are you ungrateful?’ Father snapped, giving Mother a swift look. Sherlock was shaking. ‘Did your Mother put you off it already?’  
  
‘No, I just don’t want to-‘  
  
‘You will get the best education you can, Mycroft. I am not debating this.’  
  
Sherlock dropped his fork, eyes wide and worried. His Father, always hostile towards Sherlock, glared at him. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock was too strange to be considered smart. So he was putting all his eggs in the one basket- promising Mycroft the best he could get for him.  
  
‘Pick your fork up, Sherlock.’  
  
‘You can’t make My go away.’  
  
‘I already have.’  
  
To his deep dismay, Sherlock began to rock on his seat. He’d seen Sherlock do this a few times before (always in private, always after a bad fight or a loud thunder storm) and Mycroft had dearly hoped his Father never saw it.  
  
‘What is that?’ Father sneered, and Mother flinched. ‘What are you doing?’  
  
Eyes fixed, Sherlock continued to rock. Careful to keep his face neutral, Mycroft glanced at Morrison, who looked dismayed and _furious._  He’d never seen Morrison look quite so angry before.  
  
‘Stop that fucking rocking!’ Father roared, standing so fast his chair fell. It hit the floor was an echoing crash. His spittle landed on the table, making Mycroft flinch. With a look of disgust, Father picked up the wine bottle and walked over to Sherlock.  _Let it not be real,_  Mycroft found himself begging.  _Let it not be real.  
_  
Father emptied the bottle over Sherlock.   
  
‘Enough.’  
  
The usually soft, paper-smooth voice of Morrison sounded like a whip. Father froze, still emptying the wine over Sherlock. His expression was murderous.  
‘I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Morrison.’  
  
Defiant, Morrison waited until the final drops of wine had fell onto Sherlock before answering. He was still rocking, soaked red now, his limbs shaking. Mother was crying, tiny hiccups echoing though the heated silence.  
  
‘You’re a disgrace to your son,’ Morrison whispered.  
  
‘Am I?’ Father sounded unconcerned. ‘Well, that isn’t your problem now. You’re fired. Get out.’  
  
Before he even realised what he was doing, Mycroft stood up. He knew he was crying now but he didn’t care. Boarding school. No Morrison to take care of Sherlock. No Morrison.  
  
‘Please- Father-‘  
‘Sit down or you’ll get the same treatment as your brother. Morrison, you are dismissed. Out.’  
  
Morrison gave Mycroft a firm, proud look. Then he winked.  
  
Mycroft never saw Morrison again.  
  
That night, he heard his parents shouting. It was almost a good thing. It meant he’d be able to sneak into Sherlocks oversized room without being overheard. Oversized didn’t really describe it. A large, white-blue room with a high ceiling and bookcase and lounge. A bit much for a child.  
  
‘Sherlock? Are you in bed?’  
  
Sherlock didn’t reply, which wasn’t unusual. Apart from talking about bones and organs and adventures, he didn’t talk much at all. But Mycorft could see him, curled up inside his sheets. Not bothering with words (knowing words would echo, knowing words were pointless) Mycorft climbed into the bed with him, holding him tight enough to crush him.  
  
It was one of the few types of hugs Sherlock enjoyed- bone shattering.  
  
‘I’ll get him back, one day,’ Sherlock whispered.  
  
‘Be careful, then. I might not be around.’  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
Not being around was the worst part. Time elapsed. Tests, students, discovering his sexuality, discovering his ability to see and manipulate. Power, he realised, came with a brain. Knowing how to use it. Did Sherlock know this? He would sleep in a dormitory filled with other smart young men, and deem them all plebeian. Only his Sherlock was brilliant.  
  
He returned at every opportunity he had. Mother lost weight. Father was spending less and less time at the manor. And they had replaced Morrison with a blonde man, stick thin and well groomed, called Charles.  
  
‘How are you finding school?’ Charles asked, polite and disinterested.  
  
‘Fine. I would ask how you are finding your lover, but I don’t care for the sordid details.’  
  
Charles flushed and Mycroft smiled. It was important he didn’t think he could treat Mycroft like anything less than another adult of the house. But that was hardly mattered now. He had to find Sherlock.  
  
It took him almost an hour to do so. He was sitting on the roof, resting against one of the gargoyles that overlooked the pebbled drive. It was a little scary to see him sitting so high up, but utterly like Sherlock to ignore the dangers of height and broken bones.  
  
‘Does Charles treat you well?’  
  
It was at that moment Mycroft noticed the welts on his arms. He’d been struck. Corporal punishment, Mycroft realised, and he felt enraged. What on earth had Sherlock done to warrant this kind of treatment?   
  
‘Wrong question,’ Mycroft amended, and Sherlock snorted with dark amusement. ‘Did you actually do anything wrong?’  
  
They were silent for a moment, watching clouds explore the vast sky.   _Cumulus_ , Mycroft identified, watching it drift through the air and cast a shadow on the edge of the horizon.   
  
‘I took apart the old clock. And I may have killed a bird. I said it was for experiments. Mostly it’s because of how I eat. And I move weird. He says I’m rude, but I only ever tell the truth.’  
  
Mycroft knows this to be true. Saying anything other than the truth is a baffling concept to Sherlock. He can lie, yes, but why bother? The idea of ignoring the truth to make someone feel good was… Well, Sherlock never understood.  
  
‘And how is your revenge going? For Father?’  
  
‘Good. I’m looking forward to Christmas dinner.’  
  
And so it was that when Christmas came, Mycroft was feeling far from jolly. The house was decorated as usual, with expensive baubles and fake snow. Even the old chandeliers had been dusted, with mistletoe hanging from them. Father was pleased with his end-of-year academic results. He boasted about his genius older son, talked about Mycroft as if he were an only child. Sherlock was pleased about something else altogether. He grinned at nothing, flapping his hands and pacing long into the night. The fresh welts on his arms and back were obvious to Mycroft, but Sherlock seemed oblivious to them; if anything he seemed happier than Mycroft had ever seen him. He dreaded dinner.  
  
The turkey, chicken, ham, salad and goose passed without any of Sherlocks theatrics. It was when the dessert arrived, four flavours of ice cream with warm pudding, that Sherlock began.  
  
‘I have a question for you, Father.’  
  
‘Yes? And?’  
  
‘Why are you ashamed of your bra?’  
  
Mycroft chocked on his wine, trying to process the words. Father had gone an interesting shade of pink-white-yellow.  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘Your bra, Father.’ Sherlock smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I mean this is the season of love and forgiveness, isn’t it?’  
  
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about-‘  
  
‘Brian Geff. You’ve been fucking him for the past seven months. Dried ejaculate in your hair, long hours spent away from home, sensitivity when you sit. I’ve been keeping a close eye on you. And you need not be ashamed of your kink. We’re all family here. Though it was rather unkind to cheat on Mother, and you really ought to find a better place to hide your dirty photographs.’  
  
In the moment of calm before the storm, Mycroft glanced at his Mother. She was smiling. Smiling. Before he had a chance to take that in, on top of everything else, Father stood. His chair hit the floor again, and again the sound echoed like a gunshot. Mycroft knew something awful was about to happen, something far worse than a bottle of wine- and before Mycroft could do more than cry out in alarm Father punched Sherlock square in the face.  
  
Time seemed to slow. A second punch to the face, his fat fist connecting with Sherlocks mouth. And a third, driven into his ribs. Floating ribs, though Mycroft in distraction, watching Sherlock stumble.  
  
‘I’m leaving,’ Father whispered, furious.  
  
‘I know.’ Sherlock said, spitting blood onto the floor. ‘I’ve already packed your bag.’  
  
(A few years later, Mycroft would do a search on his father and Brian Geff. It turned out they’d moved to Italy together. His father had become fat and drunken. As long as he was far away from London and Sherlock, Mycroft honestly didn’t care what he did.)  
  
Now, however, he was tending to the bleeding mouth of his brother. Despite the impressive swelling and bruises, Sherlock seemed quite content, humming to himself with his eyes closed. As Mycroft applied the antiseptic, Sherlock seized his silk tie and began stroking it. Silk was his favourite thing in the world.  
  
A quiet knock came at the kitchen door, and Sherlock called for them to enter. It was Mother, who looked quite pale but, like Sherlock, strangely peaceful.   
  
‘If I’d known he was going to punch you, I wouldn’t have let you cause a scene,’ she admitted, peering at the split in Sherlocks bottom lip.  
  
‘You knew?’  
  
‘About the affair, or about Sherlocks plan?’  
  
‘Both.’  
  
Sherlock scoffed, clearly thinking that Mycroft ought to deduce the answers for himself. Ignoring him, Mycroft looked at his Mother. Really looked. She had the same pale eyes and sharp face as Sherlock, but the auburn hair and nose were his. Usually timid and pale, now she merely seemed tired and content.  
  
‘Sherlock told me the moment he knew for sure. Once I was over the shock, I admit I rather thought the whole thing would be a bit of a laugh. I’m glad to have him gone. Charles too.’  
  
She exhaled, watching them both fondly. Sherlock had not let go of Mycrofts tie.  
  
‘I’ll be able to breathe again, with him gone…’  
  
It was hard to imagine Mother living alone in such a large house. But he was already beginning to realise that she, like Sherlock, was able to do the unexpected in even the most dire of circumstances. It was a talent he admired, and partly shared. Mycroft didn’t reprimand Sherlock for getting blood on his tie.

~  
  
‘Bounty! Come back!’  
  
Victor was running as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast. He was bitterly regretting many things at that moment: that he was an unfit bastard, that he hadn’t trained Bounty properly, and that he’d called the damned dog Bounty in the first place.  
  
The red setter was a mere splash of colour in the swaying grass. Cursing through his heaving breaths, Victor followed. He needed to train that damn dog.  
  
When he found Bounty, she was sitting contently under a gigantic willow tree with a skinny pale boy. His relief was only momentary; Bounty had bitten the boy on the leg. He was bleeding. Bounty looked delighted, peering up at Victor as if waiting for his approval.  
  
 _He’s going to sue me,_  Victor though distractedly.  _Can you sue someone for having a mad dog? Probably. Oh shit oh shit oh-  
_  
‘I’m not going to sue you, although Bounty should be trained. This bite proves a theory of mine, so thankyou.’  
  
‘Oh.’  
  
Victor took a hesitant step, getting a closer look at the boy. Well, he was a man really, though an awfully skinny one. His pale limbs looked a little like the branches of a frail tree. He needed a good bath.  
  
‘Wait…’ Victor caught up to himself. ‘How’d you know about suing? And Bounty? And what theory?’  
  
‘You have a badly trained dog that just bit a stranger. Naturally you’re worried about the potential consequences. You really ought to find some time to train it, by the way. Pornography is a waste of your potential and not all strangers will be as understanding as I am…Oh, and the theory, well, your dog proved it.’  
  
Feeling a little winded, Victor sat down on the grass. The stranger wasn’t looking at him, but was peering from under his dirty curls at something in the distance. Bounty sat between them, apparently bored of running now.  
  
‘How’d you know all that?’  
  
‘I know much more than that too. Science of deduction.’  
  
‘You know-  _more-_  than that?’  
  
‘Oh yes.’ The man gave Victor a quick, cold look. It lasted less than a second, and Victor hardly had time to be uncomfortable before the monologue started.  
  
‘You live in London, alone, in a house your parents had been saving for you since birth. Middle class, first year at university, you can’t drive and you lost your virginity by accident more than anything else. You enjoy buying erotic magazines, badly written science fiction novels and you tried smoking but gave it up. Sherlock Holmes.’  
Having no idea where exactly to begin, Victor merely nodded. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him and seemed oblivious to the fact he’d done anything very unusual or invasive. The fact he could tell that it’d been an accident- Victor blushed.  
  
‘How do you do that? Is it like a trick?’  
  
‘Not a trick,’ snapped Sherlock. ‘I told you, the science of deduction.’  
  
‘And can you explain that?’  
  
‘Fine.’  
  
And so Sherlock lay back on the grass, his blue-grey eyes fixed on the air as he began a long, far more extensive explanation of the science of deduction in general, how he’d applied it to Victor, and how he’d used it already to deduce the lives of everyone else in the park. Realising Sherlock wasn’t going to stop talking (and that his contribution to the conversation consisted of listening) Victor allowed himself to relax into the grass too, letting the baritone voice rise from the ground beside him, an endless stream of information and inference.  
  
It was strange, without doubt, but not bad.   
  
‘…with the iron content meant that, naturally, the splatters had to have come from… are you even listening?’  
  
‘Yes. Yes, sorry,’ Victor lied, eyes still closed. ‘My name is Victor, by the way. Victor Trevor.’  
  
‘You weren’t listening and I didn’t ask for your name,’ Sherlock pointed out, propping himself up on a spindly elbow.   
  
‘Well. No. But I didn’t mind you talking. And I know your name so… fair is fair. And I still feel guilty about Bounty.’  
  
‘Bounty is an awful name for a dog.’  
  
‘I know.’  
  
They fell into silence, and Victor was hard pushed to decide if it were a peaceful one or an awkward one. Sherlock looked utterly unconcerned, watching a small family walk around the edge of a distant lake.  
  
‘Victor?’  
  
‘Yeah?’  
  
‘I want your number but I don’t want to have sex with you. So can I have your number?’  
  
Coughing on air and stuttering (a habit he’d never grown out of) Victor sat up to get a better look at Sherlock, mostly to check for indicators of madness or sarcasm. He found none. Sherlock was watching him with a mixture of confusion, hope, alarm and distaste.    
  
‘Right. Ah. Well… Yes, ok, I have to go now, so I’ll just give you my number and I’ll go…’  
  
Trying not to show how mortified he was, Victor wrote down his number and gave it to Sherlock, who accepted without thanks. Re-attaching the lead to Bounty, he gave Sherlock one last, curious look. Sherlock didn’t look back though, so Victor lead Bounty away and tried not to over-think the whole thing.  
  
Weeks passed and Bounty was better trained, if not perfect, and Victor hadn’t heard a word from the eccentric Sherlock. At first he’d been half dreading the call, expecting either another long winded rant or worse, another awkward attempt at not propositioning him. As time passed without contact, however, Victor allowed himself to put Sherlock to the back of his mind.  
  
Until the call at midnight.  
  
He answered the phone mostly because he knew if he didn’t and it turned out to be an emergency, he’d regret it. Midnight was hardly the normal hour to call anyway, so it had to be something important…  
  
‘Hello?’  
  
‘This is Sherlock Holmes. I need to shower and sleep at your house.’  
  
‘What?’  
‘Yes or no?’  
  
Victor gaped at the phone, wondering if this were perhaps a very strange dream.  
  
‘You want to shower at my house and sleep over even though we’ve only spoken once before?’  
  
‘Obviously. And soon, I’m bleeding.’  
  
‘You’re-‘  
  
‘Yes, bleeding!’ Sherlock snapped. ‘So can I have your address please?’  
  
Victor gave him the address, wondering if he was mad for doing so. He estimated he had about twenty minutes, and spent them washing up, hiding his dirty laundry, and panicking. He didn’t know anything about damn Sherlock Holmes. He could be a murderer or anything. Plus the place looked like slobs hovel. His mother would faint if she saw the kitchen.  
  
The doorbell rang and Victor swore. It’d only taken Sherlock eleven minutes. Damn that.   
  
Steeling himself, Victor opened the door. Despite the freezing air, Sherlock was wearing only a torn silk shirt and jeans. Dried blood was plastered to the side of his face.  
  
Oddly, he was grinning like an idiot.  
  
‘Sherlock… Ok, come in.’  
  
‘Where’s the shower?’  
  
Victor sighed. Clearly he wasn’t going to get a thankyou or a sorry. Well, he was injured, he was probably in shock or something… Trying not to think about what might have happened to Sherlock, he pointed towards the bathroom, and waited the full forty minutes Sherlock took to wash by sitting on his lounge, tense and awkward.  
Once he emerged, Sherlock looked much better. His once grimy skin was pale and fresh, the oily curls clean. The cut on his scalp was shallow but long, and Victor rather suspected it’d been a knife that had cut him.  
  
‘So. What happened to you…?’  
  
‘Altercation over money. Nothing too serious.’  
  
Ignoring that last comment, Victor decided to be as blunt with Sherlock as Sherlock was to him.  
  
‘Why did you come here? Don’t you have anywhere else to go?’  
  
‘Not really. One person, but I’d rather not.’  
  
As he had last time, Sherlock was avoiding his eye. This wasn’t something that Victor minded- he was shy himself- but now it seemed like an attempt to lie to him, or at least wrong foot him somehow.  
  
‘Are you lying?’  
  
‘No. Why?’  
  
‘Because you’re not looking at me.’  
  
Sherlock flinched, looking Victor right in the eyes now. It was actually worse than when he wasn’t looking. There was a defiant, guilty intensity in that gaze Victor didn’t like. And then he saw it.   
  
‘Fuck. Sherlock… What did you take?’  
  
Immediately, Sherlock looked away. Fear and rage battled within Victor, and it was  a hard thing not to take Sherlock by the throat and throw him onto the street. Only the realisation that he’d have to sleep on the street stayed Victors hand.  
  
‘Sherlock?’  
  
‘Cocaine.’  
  
Victor swore. ‘And how much? Who gave it to you?’  
  
Eyes fixed on this hands, Sherlock didn’t answer. He’d started to sway on the spot, looking tense. It was hard to tell if this was something he always did, or something related back to the drugs in his system. Either way, he remained silent.  
  
‘Sherlock. Tell me.’  
  
‘Sebastian. Seven per cent.’  
  
Not knowing any Sebastians, and not familiar enough with cocaine to know how dangerous that amount was, Victor merely frowned. Despite the obviously thick and healthy hair and bright (too bright) eyes, it was clear Sherlock was in trouble.  
  
‘You can sleep on the lounge. And I’ll make you some toast.’  
  
‘I don’t want any-‘  
  
‘Too bad.’  
  
To his deep satisfaction, Sherlock shut up and ate his toast. The lounge was just large enough for his lanky body, and Victor offered him three blankets. Sherlock only took two, rejecting the knitted one with a wince of distaste. Shrugging, Victor left him to it.  
  
The next morning Sherlock was gone.  
  
He’d cleaned the kitchen before he left, though, so Victor considered the whole thing a strange kind of success.   
  
To his dismay, it became a habit. A few times a week Sherlock would turn up, usually high and always battered, to shower, eat and sleep. Victor hadn’t given Sherlock a key to his house but that seemed immaterial to Sherlock. He climbed through the window, and if the door was locked, he picked it.  
  
‘Are you a criminal as well as a junkie?’  
  
‘Neither.’  
  
Victor snorted. He could see the recent injection marks on Sherlocks arm, and it took him less than forty seconds to pick his lock even when his hands were shaking with the comedown.  
  
‘Don’t bullshit. You’re high all the time and you brake into my house.’  
  
‘Inaccurate. I get high when I’m bored and I only currently brake into your house. It’s hardly something I do all the time.’  
  
‘I’m honoured,’ Victor drawled, glaring. ‘Seriously though. If life is so boring just go get a job. Or finish university.’  
  
‘How’d you know I was at university?’  
  
‘Because you’re smart.’  
  
‘Oh. Well, true.’  
  
Modesty was something Sherlock considered stupid and beneath him. Victor had worked that out very early on. Manners, as far as he could tell, were baffling concepts to Sherlock.  
  
‘And another thing. Where do you sleep and eat and stuff when you’re not here?’  
  
‘I don’t.’  
  
Hearing his fears confirmed didn’t make them any better. Victor winced, trying to imagine Sherlock high under a bridge, or smoking endlessly to keep the ache in his empty stomach at bay.  
  
‘Well, you’re lucky to be alive.’  
  
‘Luck has nothing to do with it.’  
  
‘If you say so. Now eat your toast.’  
  
They continued on like this for about eight months. Sherlock would arrive, show Victor his most recent injury, and shower. Then he would eat until Victor was happy with him, falling to sleep with the sheets he liked on the lounge. It was habit that didn’t bother Victor much. Yes, it was annoying to have his house broken into and his food eaten, but Sherlock was interesting company (interesting among the kinder words) and he’d rather Sherlock bothering him than caught by the cops.  
  
So when Sherlock vanished without word, and Victor went months upon months without seeing him, it was impossible not to worry.    
  
~  
  
Sebastian valued certain things above others. Good looks, social status, networking skills, sexual expertise and lavish enjoyments were qualities he tended to look for in the people around him.  
  
Sherlock Holmes wasn’t ordinarily the sort of person he’d look at.  
  
Ordinary didn’t apply to Sherlock Holmes.   
  
He was good looking in a desperate, sharp kind of way. He obviously came from money, but he didn’t care about that. Furthermore, he was rude to everyone he met, used his intelligence against people, was rumoured to be a virgin and dressed like a high-class homeless man.  
  
Yet. Yet…  
  
Sherlock was smart. He saw things. Sebastian had no idea how he saw these things (he assumed Sherlock was either a stalker of some kind of fraud, performing some kind of trick) but the fact that he could see these things made him important. Sebastian wasn’t the type to overlook a potential asset.  
  
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he informed Sherlock, outside the university. ‘But I have an idea, so you should listen to it.’  
  
‘You want me to use my superior intellect to help you manipulate your friends. And the answer is no.’  
  
Sherlock began to walk away. Cursing at the freak internally, Sebastian called for him to wait.  
  
‘Sherlock- you don’t know what I’ll offer you!’  
  
Pausing, Sherlock waited for him to continue.  
  
‘I have contacts. People you’d like.’  
  
‘People I’d like?’ Sherlock scoffed, turning enough to give Sebastian a scolding glare. Popular knowledge: Sherlock didn’t like anyone. ‘If this is about sex you may as well give up now, Sebastian.’  
  
‘It isn’t. You hate being bored, right?’  
  
‘Correct.’  
  
‘Well these people can help you not be bored.’  
  
He knew he’d said the right thing. A look of hesitant interest joined the scorn on Sherlocks face. Anything not to be bored. Little virgin. Sebastian decided not to gloat, though. He needed Sherlock on his side and fast.  
  
‘Look, I’ll give you his address. If you enjoy yourself, come back and tell me everything you know about Amy Singh and Rolf Harrison, ok?’  
  
Sherlock took the address with such extreme caution Sebastian was reminded of a wild animal being offered food from a human for the first time. It was the kind of pathetic display that Sherlock detested in other people, and seemed oblivious to in himself.  
  
~  
  
Greg was tired. Bone tired.  
  
His life seemed to have compacted into three things: Get the job done. Get the job done well. Keep Brenda happy. So far, he’d only managed two of the three.  
It was true that Greg always got the job done. His patience was astounding; once he got his teeth into something, he refused to let it go. Getting the job done well was something he could do too. As a matter of a fact, he was rather expecting that this undercover mission would end with a promotion.  
  
No, it was Brenda that he failed at. They’d married young, right out of school. Brenda with her straw-blonde hair and full curves. She’d liked the idea of him in uniform. She’d thought it would be something sexy, something for her to boast about to the girls down at the cafe where she worked.  
  
Then hours were too long. She put on weight. So did he. They didn’t have kids. Greg developed a habit tuning out her complaints. He knew they were going down the shitter, but he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to do his damn job.  
  
Which is exactly what he was currently doing.  
  
He was waiting with a girl and a boy for the dealer to arrive. The girl (Carrie Jones, known addict and shoplifter) had red hair and sweaty skin. A long stint in rehab would probably sort her out. It was the other one Greg was interested in.  
  
Dressed in a silk shirt that was at odds with his slept-in hair and muddy jeans, the pale young man had come to their attention a few months ago. They couldn’t work out what his name was, or where he lived. They’d tried putting a trail on him once, but he’d shaken it off with alarming ease.  
  
Like Carrie, he’d been using for a long time now. Unlike Carrie, he was an unknown element, an enigma, and he was looking at Greg with an expression of wry amusement and resignation.  
  
It was making Greg feel rather awkward. Perhaps his disguise wasn’t strong enough? This was only the second time he’d-  
  
‘It isn’t your disguise,’ the man said, interrupting Gregs thought.  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘It isn’t your disguise that gave you away. Its your hands. Most people wouldn’t have noticed though, so I suppose it wasn’t a serious error on your part.’  
  
‘What are you talking about?’  
  
‘He does this,’ Carrie cut in, throwing a dirty look at the man. ‘He talks shit about everyone. Just ignore him, he thinks he’s special.’  
  
‘I am special. And he’s a cop.’  
  
Greg blanched, but the man didn’t seem angry at him and Carrie obviously didn’t believe him. His confusion (anger, fear) must have shown on his face though, because the man introduced himself.   
  
‘Sherlock Holmes. This will be my first arrest, and I’ll be bailed out by my older brother. He’ll be furious, even though I’m not an addict. You’ll get the promotion, I think, but that’s little compensation for the fact your wifes probably cheating on you.’  
  
The urge to shout, punch, and demand answers from Sherlock Holmes was very, very strong. He knew Brenda was cheating, but he’d been more than content to live in a state of denial. They were wrong for each other, fine, but it was his business. He hadn’t told anyone. And if this damn junkie thought-   
  
If it hadn’t been for the arrival of the dealer (a bearded man with awful body odour) Greg would have, perhaps, lost his temper. As it was, he stood and arrested all three of them the moment the cocaine was produced.  
  
Carrie swore, the dealer threw a punch, and Sherlock laughed.  
  
Once in the cell with Sherlock (who was twitching without his fix, but otherwise seemed quite composed) Greg decided to get some answers.  
  
‘That stuff you said before I arrested you. Where did that come from?’  
  
‘Come from…?’  
  
Sherlock was watching the table, twisting his hands in his lap.  
  
‘Yeah. How’d you guess?’  
  
‘I didn’t guess. It’s called the science of deduction. I can solve any puzzle using the skills of observation.’  
  
‘Yeah, but I observe things, and I couldn’t do that.’  
  
Sherlock snorted, as he knew that perfectly well. ‘You see, not observe. I can prove it, if you like, not that I need to with you.’  
  
‘How?’  
  
‘Grab me a cold case. With photos.’  
  
The request was cold, without any indication that doing so would put Greg at risk. It was astounding, actually, that the man he’d arrested as a junkie could so brusquely demand access to police files.  
  
‘And why will I do that?’  
  
‘Because you’re curious. You want to see if I can or if it’s just a fluke.’  
  
Unable to deny the truth in that, Greg gave Sherlock a tight smile and went to fetch some files as covertly as possible. He neither chose anything too impossible, or too easy. Though- on second thought he included one of the harder ones, just in case.  
  
He threw them down to Sherlock without ceremony, and remained standing whilst he read through him, his thin fingers rushing through the pages and his sharp eyes taking everything in. It was actually quite a thing to watch, the full lips mouthing the words, his fingers tracing the pictures. Within an hour he’d insulted the entire Yard with great eloquence, and solved them all.  
  
Stunned, Greg sat down with him and sorted through the evidence.  
  
‘It all matches up, you see,’ Sherlock said, flipping through the papers with obvious delight. ‘The wound wasn’t actually made by someone shorter than her, it was just made to look like that in order to frame this Heath fellow. A clear case of discrimination and perceived sexual inadequacy leading to a murder cover-up. Something rather alike to this happened in Sweden nine years ago. A young homosexual-‘  
  
Greg let the words wash over him. It seemed almost impossible to keep Sherlock on topic, even though he was obviously some kind of genius. He was almost shaking with excitement, talking too loudly and with extravagant hand gestures.     
  
‘Wait…’  
  
Sherlock stopped mid-word and waited.  
  
‘If you’re so clever, how come you let yourself get arrested?’  
  
‘Well I wanted to work with you. To show you that you need me, which you obviously do. And I knew my brother would bail me out. Speak of the devil-‘  
  
A very well dressed older man had appeared outside the cell. He was giving Sherlock a look that could kill, and merely glanced at Greg and the files on the table. Everything about him seemed to be the polar opposite of Sherlock.  
  
Where Sherlock was muddy jeans and excited eloquence, this man was expensive suits and clipped, posh tones.  
  
‘I’ve bailed you out,’ he said, curt.  
  
‘Naturally.’  
  
Without a second word, Sherlock stood. He gave Greg a clear, assessing look before he left, though. 

~  
  
He’d known Sherlock was in trouble.  
  
Not attending class. Fighting with the other students. Performing obscure and dangerous experiments without permission or safety equipment. He had no friends, no lovers, and hardly ate.  
  
It was sending Mycroft around the twist.  
  
The eating he understood. There were few foods Sherlock liked, and his need to eat was minimal. Furthermore, his relationship with food had been badly damaged by years of forced-feeding. Even the experiments didn’t worry him. As a child, Sherlock had been impossible to contain when it came to anything he was interested in. It was to be expected.  
  
No, it was the missing classes and social isolation that had Mycroft worried.  
  
Since moving to London, Sherlock had come to his house a few times. He never came by the front door, instead devising various different ways to enter which would annoy him no end. But the visits were mostly friendly. Sherlock would play chess, complain about the idiots at the university, and fire questions at Mycroft to see what answers he’d get.  
  
It was refreshing, actually, to talk to Sherlock. He was smarter than most of Mycrofts team, liked to lock horns with Mycroft, liked to share the awful weight of intelligence with his older brother.  
  
When the visits stopped, Mycroft had hoped it meant Sherlock had made other friends and didn’t need to rely on him so much. It wasn’t until the first call from the university came that he realised it wasn’t only him Sherlock had suddenly stopped seeing.  
  
He called in a favour or two (he always had a favour or two waiting, just in case) and set about working out exactly what Sherlock thought he was doing. What he found out was far from pleasant.  
  
There were a few streets outside of CCTV coverage that Sherlock frequented. He got into a few nasty fights. Once he pretended to be dead in order to escape his attackers, and a few nights a week he would hide out in a house belonging to a man named Victor Trevor. Naturally, Mycroft ran a full check on Trevor. Yet he seemed harmless, boring, the kind of person Sherlock would manipulate when he needed help.  
  
Which meant he needed help.  
  
It wasn’t until the police called him up that he joined the dots, though. Sherlock had been arrested for attempting to buy an illicit substance. Cocaine. It had been rather clever of him to find a dealer who lived beyond CCTV reach. Furthermore, they suspected he was a regular user. Hot rage washed over Mycroft in waves, even as he smiled coldly and handed over the bail money. To increase his chagrin, Sherlock looked happy (if skinny and half-high) in his cell, chatting to a recently promoted man he couldn’t give a second thought to.  
  
They didn’t speak until they were inside Mycrofts house.  
  
‘You are going to explain yourself.’  
  
Sherlock hung his head, but Mycroft wasn’t fooled.  
  
‘They said it’d stop me being bored.’  
  
‘And does it?’  
  
‘Sometimes.’

‘Well, that’s a shame, as you won’t be doing it any more.’  
  
He ignored the sharp, defiant look he got at those words. For some reason, he couldn’t stop a series of images flashing through his head: Morrison holding baby Sherlock close, their Mother smiling as she watched them collect tadpoles, Sherlock beaming when he learnt to tie his shoelaces.  
  
‘Mycroft… You know I’m awful at what you do,’ Sherlock said. It was unusual for Sherlock to admit to a weakness. ‘I don’t do the whole people thing. Like you do. The cocaine helps. Makes me…’  
  
Sherlock couldn’t finish the thought, and Mycroft was glad of it. He didn’t want to hear that Sherlock had been self-medicating with destructive substances just to feel normal, to feel interested in life, to feel liked.   
  
Mycroft held out his hand, dismissing Sherlocks words with the gesture. Naturally, Sherlock bristled at that.  
  
‘You don’t own me, Mycroft. I can take care of myself.’  
  
‘Obviously not. You were arrested. Do you realise what Mother will say?’  
  
‘You don’t have to tell her anyth-‘  
  
 _‘Sherlock Holmes!’_  
  
Sherlock jumped. It’d been a long time since Mycroft had raised his voice. He’d forgotten how satisfying it was. And he didn’t regret doing it, even when Sherlock began to sway forwards onto the tips of his toes.  
  
‘You will not do it again. If you do, I will send you to rehab. You will get a job. A proper job. And some proper friends. You won’t be bored and you’ll live like a damned normal person!’  
  
He saw it happen. The growing fear and defiance in Sherlock, clear in the tilt of his chin and the taught line of his throat. Mycroft couldn’t care less. They’d come through so much. Sherlock was brilliant, was worthy. He couldn’t let his baby brother throw himself away. The word  _normal_  slipped out before he could stop it.  
  
Something dark closed behind Sherlocks eyes.  
  
He turned and left without another word. 

~  
  
Greg started receiving texts from Sherlock, which was odd, because they hadn’t exchanged numbers. But he didn’t know any other rude geniuses with the initials SH, so who else could it be?   
  
For the most part, they were cryptic messages that related back to the cases he was solving. He didn’t want to know how Sherlock got his information- it was probably illegal. That didn’t stop him from using the hints, though. Greg was nothing if not practical.  
  
 _Check to see if the brother had a dog. If so, brother is the killer.  
_  
 _You need to look at the dust.  
_  
 _It’s in the tree, you idiots.  
_  
 _Take four steps forward from the front door and then punch a hole in the wall.  
_  
 _Inside the TV.  
_  
The second last of those texts turned out to be Sherlocks idea of a joke. He’d been watching them work from a nearby park, well hidden by leaves and clutching a pair of binoculars. He’d roared with laughter when Greg had put his fist through the suspects plaster wall. Greg had been unimpressed by the prank, angry at himself for following the instruction so blindly.  
  
It was a strange working relationship, but it did the job.  
  
Well, until he was abducted by a black car on his way home.  
  
Mycroft Holmes was the sort of man who had a finger in every pie. They’d only seen each other once, when Sherlock had been bailed out, but Greg never forgot a man who dressed like a prince. Furthermore, he seemed to drip with danger and threat. So when they stood together, in an empty park on a cold summers day, Greg was on edge.  
  
‘What is your relationship towards Sherlock?’  
  
He had an umbrella with him, leaning on it slightly. Greg thought he looked very out of place beside the slippery dip.   
  
‘Well, I arrested him. And now he texts me. Sometimes.’  
  
‘And what do you think of him, in a professional sense?’  
  
Greg scrunched his nose up.  
  
‘Rude little bugger with no people skills, but damn good at what he does. Whatever it is that he does. That deduction stuff. A shame about the drugs.’  
  
‘Quite my sentiments on the matter. The drugs have created a rift between my brother and I, as of late. You would do well to keep an eye on him for me. He can solve almost any case, when he isn’t high. He could be an ally, Greg. But-’ Mycroft gave his watch a glance, then looked over to where his car was parked. ‘I’m out of time now. Please keep what I’ve said in mind, though.’  
  
He left without another word. Greg was alarmed. Mycroft had more power than he’d realised, cared more about Sherlock than Sherlock knew, was probably a bit of a bastard, and… and what? Did he think Sherlock could save the world with a little bit of help? Or was that what he thought?  
  
Giving it up as a bad job (understanding a Holmes, why bother) he plodded home to endure Brenda. Every time he was late, she hurled abuse at him. Too much work. No sense of family. Don’t love me. Getting too old for this. Bad priorities. Would get himself killed.   
  
Greg never shouted at her when she was late.  
  
He knew the truth- and he didn’t even need Sherlock to tell him.  
  
She was cheating, and lashing out at him so when they did divorce, she would feel justified in her actions, guilt free and assured she was acting for the best. It was only a matter of time, but Greg was a very patient man.  
  
Then something else happened.  
  
He called it The Text Day in his head, because he’d never quite gotten over the shock of opening his phone to find seven messages from Sherlock. And not one of them relating back to a case.  
  
 _Grime everywhere. Inside my skull.  
_  
 _Solved the newspaper.  
_  
 _He said I should say please more often.  
_  
 _Still have the scxar from Bonty.  
_  
 _Lestrsda  
_  
 _Ned of [ssible asstaamce  
_  
The last text was an address. Without thinking about it, without remembering it was two in the morning and maybe he ought to call someone else for backup, Greg put on his shoes, put a jacket of his pyjamas, and got in his car. His hands were sweating.  
  
Naturally, the house was a dump. A two story shack that seemed to be imploding in slow motion. The windows were blind eyes, and the front lawn was covered in weeds. Rubbish was clumped around the door, and once inside the stink of cat piss was almost overwhelming. Despite all the signs of recent human habitation, the place was silent. Suddenly Greg regretted not getting dressed- if somebody jumped out at him, it would be hard to live down. His pyjamas had bears on them.  
  
A quick investigation of the lower rooms revealed a large number of soiled nappies, a collection of used needles, old vomit, four dead rats and no Sherlock. The stairs didn’t look safe to walk up, but Greg had decided the sooner he was out of this house the better.  
  
Thankfully, Sherlock was in the first room he checked. It contained two mattresses, and the half-naked figure of the founder of the science of deduction. It was the cleanest room he’d seen so far, but it wasn’t saying a lot. Sherlock was clutching his phone, his skin grey and his breathing shallow. There was blood under his nails but Greg had no idea how it’d gotten there.  
  
‘Right…’  
  
He pulled Sherlock into a standing position. It was too easy- when was the last time he’d eaten? And why didn’t Mycroft already know about this mess? The moment Sherlock was upright, bile began to dribble out of his mouth. It was the most pathetic attempt at vomiting Greg had ever seen.  
  
Once his stomach was well and truly devoid of acid, Sherlock passed out in Gregs arms. Swearing softly in the filthy house, Greg carried him down the steps, sending a small army of roaches scattering. He put Sherlock in the car, made a mental note to clean the car, and then drove like hell for the hospital.  
  
Upon arrival, Sherlock was treated right away. Greg wasn’t sure if this was because of Mycroft pulling strings, or because Sherlock was closer to death than he’d thought. Either way, he found himself sitting in a hallway with Mycroft Holmes, who looked tired and scared.  
  
Well, he’d forgotten his umbrella and his shirt didn’t exactly match his jacket, so Greg assumed that meant he was upset.  
  
Naturally, Mycroft had a million questions. Where was he, had he said anything, what was the house like, what did he do, was anyone with him, did he seem hurt, what did the texts say… If it hadn’t been for the worry Mycroft was so badly concealing, Greg would have told him to piss off. As it was, he kept his temper, answering the onslaught with as much detail as he could muster.  
  
Sitting with someone in a hospital, waiting to find out about the same person, was a strange kind of experience. Greg had been lucky enough to avoid doing it too many times. An odd feeling of companionship seemed to blossom between him and Mycroft, as they watched the seconds tick away.  
  
It was quite a few hours before Sherlock was permitted to have patients. The nurse said it was family only; Mycroft said Greg was a cousin.  
  
Sherlock looked very small and sad on the bed, his elegant hands curled into loose fists. Nobody had noticed the blood under his nails, though Greg was sure Mycroft saw it. Looking at him, it was hard to imagine the caustic wit and manic intelligence that his brain was capable of.  
  
‘The blood under his nails…’ Greg hesitated. ‘How?’  
  
‘He clawed at his head. He used to do it as a child, sometimes.’  
  
They said nothing, listening to the steady beat of the heart monitor.  
  
‘What happens now?’  
  
‘Rehab.’  
  
~  
  
Twenty four hours after death was a rare treat.  
  
The norm was two to three working days, with grieving families squabbling over consent and the paperwork behind the referral taking too long. But Lucy Castle had confirmed her consent before her death, and thus her body (and the paperwork) had taken a pleasingly short amount of time to get to Molly.  
  
Working with dead people, though perhaps morbid, was peaceful. They didn’t complain and they made sense. It was a job that always needed doing, and the pay was nothing to complain about.  
  
Furthermore, she had made a couple of friends.  
  
When a murder occurred, one of the police force usually came down to examine the body or collect her report. Greg Lestrade was one such man, and though he was a little older than her, he was kind, practical and had a wry kind of humour, which she appreciated.  
  
With jobs like theirs, you’d go mad without a sense of humour.  
  
Giving the fact that Lucy had been the third person in a week strangled by a chain without any DNA evidence as to her murderer, Molly was expecting to see him fairly soon. It was the exact kind of case Greg worked on.     
  
The door swung open and Molly didn’t bother looking up, too interested in the scalp of Lucy. If she was right, there was something caught in the hair-  
  
‘Molly Hooper?’  
  
She jumped, looking up at the unexpected voice. The man was not Greg, and didn’t look like any police officer she’d ever seen. Stick thin, with clear eyes, floppy dark hair and a stern expression, the man introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes (associate of Greg) and could he see the body please?   
  
‘I…OK. If you’re with Greg. Then. Ok.’  
  
‘Greg?’ Sherlock asked, not even sparing her a glance as he pulled on some gloves.   
  
‘Lestrade, I meant.’  
  
‘Right. This body is fresh. You’ve been working here for five months. Do you fancy Greg? Bit old for you but you’ve been single for quite a long time… Now, this is the big question. Must be a clue. A mistake. Pass me the tweezers. If he went in from… and her arms were restrained with, but… OH! Well, then, it should be in her.. very good. Well. Oh, but wait…the hair, yes, oh, this is brilliant, I could sing, pass me an evidence bag. Right. I’ll see you later.’  
  
He never looked her in the eyes once.  
  
And that was how Molly met Sherlock.  
  
~  
  
At first, he was far too busy to think about such mundane things.  
  
He was running (without a cane) shooting a man (but in London) laughing out loud (and actually happy) and more than anything, alive.  
  
It was a little like having sex. There had been the sweating, the leap of faith, confusion in the darkness, brilliant highs, and even an afterglow with Chinese take-away. Yes, he’d killed a man for Sherlock, but he wasn’t the first man he’d killed. And considering how Sherlock had known his history with a look, and healed his limp with adventure, he felt rather as if he’d kill again for Sherlock.  
  
If he had to.  
  
So no, it wasn’t until later that John began to notice it. Put it together. He knew about the drug use (in a vague kind of way because neither Sherlock, Greg or Mycroft wanted to talk about it) but a history with cocaine still didn’t explain all this… this, of Sherlock.  
  
He was a doctor. Unlike Greg, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Molly, everyone else in Sherlocks life, he knew the basic outline of what to look for. It wasn’t, obviously, his area of expertise, and he didn’t want to sneak around making assumptions about Sherlock without his knowledge, but…   
  
John made a list.  
 _ **Literature:**  nothing._  
 _ **Music and general popular culture:**  nothing._  
 _ **Internet:**  extensive but impractical. Runs a blog nobody reads about things that only interest him._  
 _ **Politics:**  Feeble, leaves it to Mycroft._  
 _ **Botany:**  Knows all about mud and poison. Can’t keep a flower alive._  
 _ **Chemistry:**  Excellent._  
 _ **Anatomy:**  Enough, but unreliable._  
 _ **History of crime, including sensational literature, old cases and obscure facts:**  Unparalleled, his research takes up most of the flat._  
 _Plays the violin. Ex-smoker and cocaine user._  
 _Is street fighter, swordsman, boxer and swimmer._  
 _Didn’t know the earth orbited the sun._  
 _Gives long monologues on obscure subjects, even when nobody else is around._  
 _Is comfortable alone/in silence._  
 _Loves silk. Hates knitted things, scratchy things._  
 _Moves a lot when excited or stressed. Paces, pulls hair, waves hands, sometimes rocks. Likes to wear tight clothes & curl into tight shapes._  
 _Blunt/honest with others to point of rudeness. Does not perceive or follow social cues._  
 _Can be very sarcastic/funny but oblivious to feelings of others (at least about sex and sentiment etc) but **does feel sentiment.**  Even he if won’t admit it.  
_  
John finished his list and then looked at it for a full ten minutes, mulling it over and trying to work out what, if anything, he had managed to understand.  
In the end he scrunched it up, deciding not to think too much about it. No doubt there was a word for Sherlock. A word that Sherlock either ignored or denied or didn’t know about. Whatever it was, though, John was certain that the word wasn’t sociopath.   
  
~  
   
Mycroft had texted him whilst on holiday. If anyone else had texted him during his well earned time off, he would have told them where to shove it. But because Mycroft could probably make him vanish without trouble (and because the idea of Sherlock anywhere near Baskerville was awful) he decided to do as he was told and check up on Sherlock and John.  
  
John Watson.  
  
Greg ponders John far more than John knows. As far as he knows (and he knows quite a lot now) Sherlock has only had one proper friend apart from John. His name was Victor and once the cocaine became excessive, and Mycroft started watching too closely, Sherlock had severed ties with Victor without a second thought. So the fact that John has turned up, and stayed, made him interesting. A small man, both doctor and solider, who put up with a wide variety of eccentricities and seemed to like them. Well, some of them.  
  
Greg didn’t think anyone apart from Sherlock would like opening a fridge to find a severed human head. Or hand. Or testicle.   
  
Arrival at the hotel made Greg despair internally (he loved meat and nobody had warned him the place was vegetarian) but he placated himself with a pint, the fresh air, and he knowledge that Sherlock was probably going to do something impressive and/or mad, and he’d be around to see it.  
  
He was in such a good mood that he didn’t even mind the fact he was now recently divorced.  
  
‘What the hell are you doing here?’  
  
He turned to find Sherlock, wrapped up in his usual jacket, silk shirt and frown. Behind him, John grinned a little.  
  
‘Nice to see you too, Sherlock. So what’s the game? After the Hound from Hell?’  
  
‘Actually, I’m waiting for an explanation. Why are you here?’  
  
‘I was in the area,’ he replied, trying for nonchalant and almost managing it. ‘I fancied a holiday.’  
  
‘You’re as brown as a nut. Was it a tanning bed? You’re just back from holiday. Obvious. This is Mycroft.’  
  
It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t a lie, but Greg was uncomfortable with the truth and too tired to think up cover stories. Yes, he had been sent because of Mycroft, but he did actually _like_  this. It wasn’t like being forced. If anything, Sherlock was among the perks of his job. Well, when he wasn’t the thorn in his side.  
  
‘Sherlock, Greg is just- um-‘  
  
‘John, please don’t insult my intelligence. One mention of Baskerville and Mycroft sends my….my handler down to keep an eye on me, incognito, is that it? Is that why you’re calling yourself Greg?’  
  
‘That’s my name,’ he stated, unimpressed. Sherlock looked alarmed.  
  
‘Is it?’  
  
‘Yes, if you’d bothered to ask.’  
  
John rolled his eyes and Sherlock continued to look defiant, if a little off balance at finding out Inspector Lestrade was in fact also a Greg. Greg, meanwhile, was finding it hard to shake the words off…  
  
 _My minder… to keep an eye on me…  
_  
That was exactly what it was and Greg took a too-large swig of beer. It would never be the right time to have this conversation with Sherlock, to admit how much he worried about him. How was he meant to explain that Mycroft was worried too? He did’t know what had happened between them (honestly didn’t want to know) but… well, fuck. The whole thing was a mess. And he’d saved Sherlocks ass, so he ought to be happy about that.  
  
It wasn’t the kind of hello he’d wanted.  
  
John saved Greg from having to reply by having a rather bright idea. Not for the first time, Greg was glad to have John Watson around.  
  
~  
  
Once his plan had gone wrong (which was annoying but hardly a shock) John decided to give Greg a bit of a break. He had looked rather dismayed that after years of having known each other, Sherlock had not bothered to find out his first name. It wasn’t kind.  
  
They were waiting outside for Sherlock. It was a small hotel with decent food, and the wide (if gloomy) expanses of rock and grass was rather beautiful. In all honesty, John didn’t blame Henry for becoming poetic about it. It was the kind of area you’d expect something magical to happen.  
  
‘I’m enjoying this,’ Greg declared, smiling. ‘Nice to get London out of the lungs.’  
  
John saw his chance and took it.  
  
‘He’s secretly glad to see you, you know. Sherlock is.’  
  
‘He is?’  
  
He nodded, certain of it.  
  
‘He likes having all the same faces together, I think.’  
  
‘Yeah. Appeals to his sense of…’  
  
‘Of… Um…’  
  
They looked at each other, both trying to find the ‘sense’ of Sherlock Holmes in a word. It was no easy task, after all. John was almost tempted to tell Greg about his failed list.  
  
‘Aspergers…?’  
  
At that point, Sherlock emerged from the hotel and gave John a very dark, very alarmed kind of look. It lasted less than a second, freezing the three of them into place for a moment before Greg spoke again, asking about the dog. It was only a tiny moment in a day of hours and terrors, but it was a second that lingered somewhere in John.  
  
Waiting.  
  
Had he gotten the right word?  
  
~  
  
They decided to stay a final night. Henry wanted to thank them properly, whatever that meant, and John wanted to sight-see. Naturally, Sherlock had declared tourist attractions to be boring and predictable, and when he’d been out voted two to one he sulked like a monster.  
  
So it was that Greg found himself sitting with John by the fire, drinking beer and basking in the comedown of a case well solved. It was the kind of thing that John normally did with Sherlock, but it felt quite nice with just the two of them. Furthermore, it’d been interesting to see John in action. He wished he could shoot like that. Deadly. But he had to ask something, first, something important.  
  
‘Did the bomb, did it…? Well. Are you ok?’  
  
John smiled a little grimly. The PTSD Greg had never seen, but had heard about, could have been triggered by the explosion. Watching a man get blasted into bits was never nice, after all.  
  
The air catching fire. Blood and bone spread over the earth, and burnt flesh was a smell you never quite forgot. Greg didn’t want to dwell on that.  
‘Nothing I’m not used to. For you?’  
  
‘Same, actually. London bombings. It isn’t the same, you know. As what you did. But I can imagine.’  
  
They drank together in slightly sombre silence. He’d seen the bodies all ripped apart, and John had been the one fixing them up, albeit in another country. Until he’d become one of the shattered bodies, left shoulder scarred by a bullet nobody had been able to stop.  
  
‘I thought Sherlock was going to bite me today,’ John confessed, fairly obviously trying for a change of subject. Greg was more than happy to go along with that, actually.  
  
‘You did?’  
  
‘Yeah. The look he gave me when I said Aspergers… Not a conversation I think he wants to have.’  
  
Greg considered everything he knew about Sherlock, letting their interactions together play like a movie in his head. It wasn’t wrong, what John was saying. Aspergers. A little comforting almost. Far better than sociopath.  
  
‘You know he calls himself a high functioning sociopath, right?’  
  
‘Yep. And I looked it up. Sociopath is an out-of-date term and there isn’t such thing as a high functioning one anyway.’  
  
Greg thought John was putting far too much thought into this, and let it show on his face. John went pink around the ears but looked rather stubborn about the whole thing.  
  
‘I’d rather know the truth than have Sherlock spoon-feed us some lie to keep us away, like he does with Anderson.’  
  
‘True, that. But I don’t imagine he’ll ever tell us. It’ll be theories, and nothing else. Just guesswork.’  
  
‘You know I hate guesswork,’ said Sherlock, emerging from the shadows with his usual theatrical flair. Greg felt himself turn red and John sloshed beer over himself. Looking unamused, Sherlock dumped a pile of papers on the table and left. For a moment they just looked at each other, wondering if they were seeing the same thing. But the urge to know was too strong.  
  
A _sperger syndrome (AS) is a sub-group on the autistic spectrum (Baron-Cohen, 1995; Frith, 1991; Wing, 1981, 1988) and is diagnosed on the basis of_  
 _DSM-IV criteria (APA, 1994). The DSM-IV criteria for autism and AS both require patients to demonstrate the same number of impairments in social_  
 _interaction and to demonstrate obsessions or repetitive behaviour. However, for autism, but not for AS, qualitative impairments in communication must be evident. In addition…  
_  
Greg found himself tuning out. He knew what Aspergers was, the medical mubo-jumbo was mere detail. Clearly of the same opinion, John moved through the initial sheets to find the things that referred back to Sherlock, back to the things neither of them had ever fully known.  
 _Patient: Sherlock Holmes  
  
DOB: 19.7.1976  
Date of admission: 27.5.1999  
Age: 23  
Reason for referral: Pt was admitted to dual diagnosis unit for detox on 27.5.1999. BIB brother, Mycroft Holmes, following arrest for attp. to obtain cocaine. Pt was under the influence of cocaine when he was admitted. Pt was admitted for 28 days with possible extension to two months. Requested single unit. Request granted by special permission of the Director.  
History: Pt is a 23-year-old, White university graduate who is currently unemployed. He does not have a fixed residence. Pt reported having suspected various psychiatric diagnoses in the past, including: bipolar disorder, conduct disorder, Asperger’s disorder, histrionic personality disorder, antisocial personality disorder, and obsessive compulsive personality disorder. Pt never perused a diagnosis for any of above. Pt is not taking rx. Pt does not currently have a PCP or a psychiatrist. Pt last saw psychiatrist in 1992. He said that he stopped therapy because “the doctor was an idiot.” Pt reported some neurological symptoms and will be referred for a neuropsychological evaluation. Pt has no other reported medical conditions. Pt is allergic to shellfish and sulfa drugs.  
_  
Greg realised Sherlock had been deemed a possible danger to himself or others. It could have been true, in fact. The cocaine, the smoking, not eating, the blasé way he approached danger. Perhaps it had been a veiled death wish? Hurting others was more obvious; he was rude, and not above throwing a few punches to get what he wanted.   
  
The rest of the notes were hard to read, but he did so in determined silence, with John by his side. It was a telling indication of the seriousness of the situation that Johns hands did not shake once.  
  
A man had punched Sherlock during group therapy. He’d been cavity searched after having been discovered high- he’d clearly known a way of smuggling drugs into rehab that nobody had seen before. Though initially hostile to his therapist, Greg sensed he rather liked the woman, for her ability to keep him honest if nothing else.   
They ruled out obsessive compulsive disorder first. Greg wasn’t even sure what a  histrionic personality disorder was, but it was the next to go. They had also toyed with the idea of Sherlock being some kind of professional voyeur, because of his deductions. Greg snorted. They dismissed bipolar next, with only mild hesitation. It frankly alarmed Greg that it took them so long to throw off the idea of conduct disorder. At one point he chanced a glance at John, and regretted it. He looked furious, though about what, Greg wasn’t sure.   
  
The anti-social personality disorder was discarded with some hesitation, leaving at long last, Aspergers.   
  
Glancing through the test results, Greg had to smirk a little. They’d had to work around Sherlock (as most people did) trying to get him to participate properly without him deducing them or calling them idiots.  
  
Yet they managed it. The diagnosis was a no nonsense piece of paper, a concise and fairly anticlimactic result of Sherlocks time in rehab. Greg knew it’d taken Sherlock two more stints at the same facility before he got off the drugs properly. Yet the first time hadn’t been a loss by any means- even if Sherlock refused to admit it, he must have learnt a lot in that first stay.  
  
The hospital reports were harder to look at. Seeing Sherlock frail, grey and weak was something Greg had hated at the time, and he had no wish to relive that part of his life. John spent a long time looking at the photos, something soft in his face. It was the kind of look Brenda used to have, but had lost a long time ago. Sherlock was a lucky man, to have a friend like that.  
  
‘Well…’  
  
Greg laughed at the understatement, and let out a low whistle.  
  
‘How much of that were you around for?’  
  
‘Most of it. But they didn’t really let me in. You know? I was just around, a bystander.’  
  
John nodded. They were almost the last people still awake now, everyone else having drifted off to bed some time before. Greg had no idea what Sherlock was doing with himself- probably some awful experiment in the cabbage patch. It was warm by the fire, and he was reluctant to leave it, to face the rest of the world outside this bubble of warm. John sat with him, pondering his own thoughts in silence.  
  
~

When John saw Sherlock next, he took him by the hand and held it without saying anything. It had made him angry, reading that damn report. Angry that Sherlock had never had a say, that most of his life had been a struggle against inaccurate words and ideas.  
  
 _Freak. Machine. Spock. High functioning sociopath. The only one in the world.  
_  
He’d sat with Lestrade and read through the notes other people had made about Sherlock. The opinions, the words, the thoughts that Sherlock must have been having were frequently omitted, or at least edited.  
  
Sherlock was the absent voice in his own story.  
  
‘Do you care? Lots of people would care.’  
  
‘Sherlock…’ John held the hand in his a little tighter. ‘I’d already guessed, remember? I lived with you before I knew, and I’ll live you after. Long after.’  
  
‘Good. Because I need you to buy milk.’  
  
John glared at him.  
  
~  
  
Mycroft had timed his visit with care.  
  
John was out (on a date with a kind lady called Mary, whom Sherlock actually approved of) and Sherlock had just finished a case. He was always in a good mood after a case, always high the excitement of being right, of putting things into place in ways nobody else could.  
  
It had always silently saddened Mycroft that he felt out of place at 221b. The flat was like an extension of Sherlock, and feeling unwelcome there meant Sherlock still considered him unwelcome in his life.  
  
The skull resting by the mirror, the Cluedo game stuck into the wall with a knife, a kitchen table overrun with experiments, a fridge that contained who knew what. He hated feeling like a stranger here. Hated not knowing how Sherlock had decorated his room (did it look like the room from his childhood?) hated not knowing what books he read, what contraption he was making under the bed. He always kept his inventions under the bed.  
  
So it was a bitter taste and a heavy heart that accompanied Mycroft up the seventeen steps of 221b. He had been delaying this for years, out of pride. Pride and his own blind insistence that Sherlock would come around.   
  
‘Don’t linger on the step, Mycroft, I know you’re out there.’  
  
Mycroft stepped through the door, finding Sherlock perched on the lounge wearing a purple dressing gown. Silk. A gift from John, then, he deduced.  
  
‘You’ve put on four pounds, brother mine.’

‘I’ve been a fool.’  
  
‘What?’  
  
Sherlock put the violin down and stood, looking him over as if trying to work out weather or not he was dying from a terminal illness and had come to make amends. Well, the second part was true.  
  
‘Don’t make me repeat myself. I’ve been a fool.’  
  
‘Well, hardly unusual. To what in particular are you referring to?’   
  
‘The night I bailed you out. What I said was wrong. What I said ruined… everything. And I didn’t want it to. Moriarty is rather wrong about me, you know. His little nick-name. So I have come to say a word to you I have not said to anyone in years: Sorry.’  
  
For a few moments nothing moved. The dust floated through the air, and Mycroft let the full implications of that five letter word develop inside of Sherlocks head. A slow, hesitant smile worked its way onto Sherlock, almost against his will. Mycroft returned it, and for a few moments they stood together, grinning like idiots. Like brothers.  
For a wild moment Mycroft wondered if he should hug Sherlock, but then dismissed the idea of ludicrous. He took Johns chair and listened, content, as Sherlock (talking with his whole body, living the whole thing again through his motions, alive and thrumming with it) explained the case he’d recently solved. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lasting thanks to emmadelosnardos for the medical jargon used in Sherlocks files. You should all read 'In Confidence' because it rocks.


End file.
